Shadow over South Park
by snackysmores
Summary: After finding out that Kenny Mccormick is an immortal spawn of an elder god, Stan Marsh runs away from home and leaves everyone behind. One year later, he receives a letter from Hell's Pass Mental Asylum written by Kyle pleading for his help. The shadow he fled from has grown to engulf his home town, and only they can stop it from consuming the world.
1. Chapter 1: Prelude

A solitary light in the darkness; the sharp red digits of my alarm clock spell out five in the morning, but I'm not blearily staring at them from the comfort of my bed. I'm just glancing behind my shoulder, standing by the closed bedroom curtains, gripping an unhappy lump of nickle-plated steel. Despite the futility of it all I've been standing a vigil watch all night, staring into a whirl of ivory spots. The unsettling feelings I had as a child looking out into the oppressive fall of night and snow never left me.

When I ran away from South Park so long ago I was sure that was the worst of it: just feelings and imaginations of fresh frozen hell rising to engulf me. But the waking nightmare that kept me frozen on my feet was the fact that my dark imagination was my reality. One night long ago, out there, I was walking home late from a still and quiet evening at the frozen lake where I would cast out my dread to sink to the bottom. Arriving at my doorstep I heard a noise and I turned my head. There was nothing behind me, save for my footprints, and another set of foot prints that had followed me closely with no owner in sight upon discovery. I walked back to the lake in the morning, pulled by the dreadful feeling in my stomach and discovered a lump of bright orange soaked with bright red. I felt my sanity leaving me in heaps of sick and streams of tears and broken wheezing cries, burying a horrifying truth under clean and crisp whiteness in my mind.

My dear old friend Kenny Mccormick is a feckless seed of unspeakable evil created so that even death may die, and the sum of our fears may awaken to devour the world whole again and again and again. A gun can't kill that. A gun can't kill Kenny Mccormick either. This gun is a shortcut to hell, a place preferable to the kingdom of the mad dreamer and his regenerating livestock. This gun is loaded with two bullets. One for myself, and one for the only person that could have possibly brought me back here to piece back together the prophecy of our demise, my love that made me run when impending calamity could not: Kyle Broflovski, in my bed asleep and bare, fingers curling and lips twitching whispering the chorus of a dirge to humanity. My eyes have left the clock to look upon him now and I'm lulled into a fool's peace.

When my survival instincts snap me alert once more to look back out the window it's all I could do not to snuff myself then and there. A black mass is approaching my home, their parade proceeded by a monster in orange wearing a wide gaping smile with eyes wide open turned up at me.

My frozen surface is cracking, breaking up, I'm sobbing and shaking and Kyle's slender fingers are wrapping over mine, over my grip on our emergency exit. He's wreathed with the white sheet from my bed like the Helen of Troy, standing close behind to plant chilling pecks of his smooth and glassy lips upon the nape of my neck. His whisper of a song has reached it's outro and he's guiding me around to face him so that he may comfort me as always, to take my eyes off of the willing slaves of the deep and old ones outside who wait to drag us under and join them in an octopus garden at the bottom of the darkest ocean.

Kyle is nudging my blubbering lips with his in slow, deliberate kisses just as he's slowly lifting my hand to bring the barrel of my gun to his temple. "I'll go on ahead, Stan. I'll make a spot for us in the shade. I really am so glad you came back for me. So glad that you finally believed in me the way that I always believed in you. Don't make me wait. Not anymore." I can hear the crunching of wood downstairs as my front door is impacted with the heavy blows of axes. I've pulled back the hammer of the gun while telling Kyle how much I love him. So long ago I escaped from this place, but my heart remained with Kyle, and once I had returned to find them again, I was forced to accept my harrowing destiny of sinking into oblivion in the wreckage of South Park.


	2. Chapter 2: A Letter

I can see a tidy pile of mail on the wooden desk in my corner office as I walk in from the cold outside. On any other day seeing this many envelopes would fill me with dread, but it's my birthday and someone other than myself considered it a noteworthy event, which is a pleasing thing to know. Beside the mail is a blue gift box with a red bow on top. I give it a once over until I can find out who it's from. When you've been a detective as long as I have, you learn not to do something as naive as opening unmarked packages. The tag under the red bow says it's from Wendy, who has been working in the office with me and paying half my rent on the apartment for a place to stay while she sorts out the fallout from her relationship with Gregory.

Wendy does all of the parts of my job I don't really care for: the phone calls, the ledger, the taxes, the coffee, and so on. I still cook and clean at home, it's my own place afterall. We've had sex a few times, loaded with weird vibes, and each time after she makes sure I know we're not together. This kind of treatment is nothing new to me. I've tried to build a decent case in my head for why we don't work. If you believe that opposites attract, then the problem with Wendy and I is that we're too similar: so even if we like eachother there's just no way to keep us together. Wendy's theory about why we don't work is that I only have eyes for one person, and it's not her; but I couldn't stay together with that person either, because they couldn't leave South Park when I absolutely had to.

Things looked bad when I first arrived in town on a Greyhound with no plans or savings but I got a job with the police here because somehow they bought my story about being a "Junior Detective". Fake gun, fake badge, fake letters of recommendation from Lieutenant Dawson they bought it all and I could afford not to die on the streets. Being a young detective gave me some kind of novelty or notoriety in this town and I've gotten a decent amount of work. Nothing "big" or significant. Mostly sitting in my car trying to catch people cheating on their spouses or cheating on the government for disability benefits.

Things move so slowly out here compared to South Park I can afford to take it easy.

Everything was going so well, and then I opened my birthday present.  
Something moving in the dark, a fluid whipping motion. Light glinting off of slimy scales. I've thrown the damned box to the ground, I can hear the smashing of glass and spilling water as I rush into the other corner, fearful shouts leaping out of my throat on reflex like gasping hiccups over a din of noise. Clicking heels, muffled shouting. "…Stan! Stan! What's wrong!?"

Wendy's rushed into my office, late from a cleaning at the dentist's office, finding me huddled to the wall and her gift in ruins. I grip and pull my hair in frustration, "You ought to know what's wrong! Why the fuck would you get me a fish for my birthday, Wendy!?"

Wendy's face falls, "Stan, a little goldfish spooked you as a little boy. You're an adult, and this fish isn't haunted!" she hurriedly scoops up the flopping blue and red fish into one of the glass tumblers from my desk and holds it to her chest, looking at me like I'm the bad guy.

"Get me a scorpion, a tarantula, a fucking boa constrictor; anything but a fish, Wendy!" I cry out, rising to my feet and trying to compose myself, looking anywhere but at Wendy and that terrifying thing. That's when I see the letter I wasn't supposed to see. The letter Wendy would have hidden from me.

"Jesus christ, Stan! I'm sorry!" is all Wendy can say, carting off the fish to her smaller desk by the door, but I'm too far gone now. I'm scrambling to tear open the letter and read it once I've seen who sent it.

"I didn't get to sort your mail this morning since I was late, don't get too excited thinking they're all birthday wishes because the rent is almost due and you haven't even…Stan? Hello?" Wendy is standing over me now and I have to move to get out of her shadow, to bring the words on this letter back into light.

"Kyle wrote to me." the bastard fish and Wendy are watching me tremble with the paper taut in my hands. I look into her face and I know she's guilty. "You've been 'sorting out' Kyle's letters to me?"

"I thought you left South Park because of Kyle." Wendy says numbly, trying to sidestep taking responsibility with an easy excuse. "Never," I spit.

"You wouldn't tell anyone why, Stan." Wendy further defended herself, "You hadn't said anything about Kyle or South Park in so long, I thought I was sparing you pain. And Kyle isn't well. You know that."

That stone lump in my throat is sinking into the pit of my stomach as I turn over the envelope in my hands. South Park Mental Asylum. He's been stuck there all this time…Writing me…I stuff the letter into my jacket angrily and rush to my desk, grabbing what I'll need for this divine comedy into the nine circles of hell. My badge, my gun, a handle of rye, a good pen and notebook.

"Stan, Stan, stop! What are you doing!?" Wendy's frantic, asking when she knows what I intend to do. There are hot angry tears welling up in my eyes, "I have to help him Wendy! I'm the only one that can!"

"Stan, Kyle is safe in professional care. You need to stop yourself. You said you would never go back." Wendy is trying her best to talk me down with an arm on my sleeve but I'm forcefully shrugging out of her grasp. "I always thought that he'd follow me. No, I'm sure he would have. But he can't. So I'm going to go to him. And this time we'll leave South Park for good together, like it should have been. I'm sorry Wendy. If I don't make it back, you can have the apartment and the office. You're a good woman, and you deserve a good man. Don't wait up for any pieces of shit like me or Gregory."

I've left Wendy stunned in my wake, rushing out into the cold. Even I can scarcely believe I'm going back to that 'quiet mountain town', but what I left was ultimately a part of me and far too important not to retrieve.


	3. Chapter 3: A Sign

It disturbed Stan to think that South Park was only 45 miles away. It seemed like a world of it's own, separated from civilization by the mountains. He wanted to get there quickly, but at the same time it felt like the drive wasn't long enough to mentally prepare himself. He'd left the office in such a hurry he hadn't noticed that he was out of cigarettes and anti-depressants. Couldn't handle the flask while driving…Stan grimaced pitifully with distaste for himself feeling such a strong temptation to drink. What was wrong with him? The weight of the metal vessel teased him from his coat pocket and his mouth felt parched. Just loosen yourself up a little Stan, you're wound too tight. There was so much shit buzzing in Stan's head he didn't want to think about, and the liquor always did wonders to make him forget for a little while. With a drink he could appreciate the world for what it was instead of looking for monsters lurking from the shadows.

Stan felt ill seeing a road sign that said South Park was now 15 miles away. Looking down at the dashboard, his stomach lurched seeing the speedometer needle pointing at 80 miles an hour. Easing his foot off the pedal and loosening his grip on the wheel, his knuckles were white clenching so hard. Something terrible had happened to make him leave that mountain town, and something terrible remained there. Worse than that, Kyle remained there. He wouldn't leave. Stan begged Kyle to run away with him before he left. He knew it was crazy but he had to try, they were supposed to be inseparable. Not being able to explain why he was forced to skip town was the worst of it, it felt like he had to rip out half of his own heart and leave it there in Kyle's hands. Thinking about him now seemed like the best way to motivate himself and occupy his mind. He could still recall every last word on the letter he'd received that morning from the Hell's Pass Asylum, the folded paper in his chest pocket.

"Dear Stan,  
It's been a long time since we last spoke. I've written you so many letters now and you haven't replied to one. Have you gotten any of them? When I first started I wrote alot, because I had a lot to say. But there's no point if it doesn't get to you, is there? I haven't given up on you, however I can't bear to continue pouring my heart into these letters like I have been. when I found your name in a copy of the Denver yellowpages just laying around one day I thought I'd faint. They still didn't reach you…I thought I could trust the people here, but I guess you can't trust anyone in this world. I've composed an abridged version of what I want to say to you, and I'm going to keep sending it until you respond.

Please come back Stanley, I need you. -Love, Kyle"

Stan whizzed by the road sign declaring 'Welcome to South Park', looking for the exit toward Hell's Pass. He wondered what Kyle had wrote from the first letter…The thought made his eyes water: Kyle's beautiful cursive handwriting filling page after page with his innermost thoughts, week after week…Stan hadn't seen even one until now. Wendy turned out to only be responsible for blocking about seven or eight letters, but it felt like a massive betrayal. He'd always known that Kyle didn't want to see him go, but this was serious. Had Kyle been locked up in that place right after he left town? Stan's blue subaru pulled in through the ominous metal gates of Hell's Pass, looking at the general hospital building, turning up the road leading to the asylum.

Stan absolutely hated hospitals, about as much as he hated fish. The glaring white lights reflecting off of puke green walls and shining tiled floors casting garrish light onto doctors and nurses in blood-spattered scrubs while casting deep shadows onto the bleeding and oozing wounded or sickly. The smells of disinfectant and cafeteria food doing little to cover up the smells of death, decay, and viscera. The sounds of pain and loss intermingling with screaming new life. It made Stan want to puke his guts out.

Finding a parking spot close to the building Stan briskly jogged up the steps and entered through the heavy front doors. The decor of the asylum looked no better than the hospital as he arrived. Brick with layers of white paint, expressionless orderlies in crisp white herding the mentally unstable. One such orderly and the patient holding his hand looked quite familiar…

"Agh!" the wiry patient with messy blonde hair shaked and spasmed all over looking at Stan with wide eyes. "What's he doing here?"

"Yeah, Stan." Craig squeezed Tweek's hand, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see Kyle." Stan wasn't sure if they'd heard his voice coming out so surpisingly soft but Craig responded, "It's about time. He's in the main room, it's after lunch so everyone's taking it easy. Don't have some kind of scene here, I mean it."

"Ergh!" Tweek cringed and hid his face against Craig's shoulder, the stoic black-haired boy insisting: "He's not going to do anything bad, let's get you some tea." Craig flipped Stan off and led Tweek to keep walking.  
Tweek's whining grew faint as he was led away by his handler, "But I want coffee…! Please?"

Stan stepped lightly as he moved toward the main room, not wanting to alarm anyone, feeling that he was disturbing the tentative calm that had settled in the asylum. It wasn't just the mental hospital, to Stan, everyone who stayed in South Park had to be insane.

There was the faint sound of pleasant classical music from a radio and a fainter sound of a sports game from a television, spotting the open main room with an arrangement of many chairs and many simple activities. A familiar stuttering voice caught his attention from the corner, standing up on a small raised platform. "How about that circus fire? Have you seen this? Have you heard about this…? It was inte-te- it was in tents."

The comedian's small audience wasn't terribly responsive, but Timmy gave him an encouraging shout and a wide smile. "Wow, what a terrific audience. Really, thank you. I'll be right back." Jimmy noticed Stan and quickly moved on his forearm-crutches to meet him, noticing him looking around unsettled. "Wow Stan, what a suprise to see you. I was just here visiting my good friend Timm. Timm-. Timmeeehh…"

The wheelchair bound boy nearby shouted his name at Jimmy hearing him struggle, Jimmy managing to spit out: "My good friend, Timothy. I'm guessing you're here to see Kyle? I think he went back to his room. It'll be unlocked during free time, door T-two thirteen."

Stan did want to chat with Jimmy, maybe even Craig; ask about what's been going on to put at least three of his former classmates in the psych ward, but he was already rushing to Kyle's room, Jimmy politely saying it was good to see him as he went.

Stan ran out of breath like he'd forgotten how to take in air in the first place, getting to door 231 and putting his hand to the door. "Kyle…?" There was a sudden collision against the door that startled him greatly: a pale and faintly freckled face with wide green eyes and a wild head of curly red hair pressed to the barred window of the door. "Stan! Stan! Stan! Stan!" the door flew open and Stan stumbled back, getting slammed against the wall by the frail boy in white uttering his name over and over again, hands around his back clutching for life, cheek against his chest over his heart, tears spotting his long-sleeve button up. Stan hugged Kyle tightly, hiding his shameful expression in his red mane. "You came back…" the mental patient's body was racked with sobbing. Stan felt numb as the guilt overwhelmed him. "I got your letter."

"Which one?" Kyle sniffed and let out a soft laugh, struggling to compose himself.  
"The most recent…" Stan murmured in apology.  
"Not my best work." Kyle mumbled back, nuzzling in under Stan's neck.  
"What are you doing here?" Stan held on even as Kyle loosened his desperate grip around his back.  
"I committed myself Stan. I'm…Not well." Kyle sounded embarrassed to admit to Stan.  
He had looked a bit…Disturbed at first. Manic. But he was just glad to see him after so long, he seemed to be calming down… "Why? Was it my fault?" Stan gulped with a heavy lump in his throat.

"No." Kyle assured him, "You're the only thing that's kept me going."  
"You don't have to stay here any more then. You can leave, right?" Stan wasn't sure where they'd go, but Kyle shouldn't be in a box hidden from the world.  
"I…Maybe. If it's with you. But…Stan?"

"What is it?" Stan asked, feeling Kyle's fingers unfurl from the hold on his back, winding around to his front, fussing with his messy shirt collar, scratching his finger tips over his coarse stubble, reached up to fix his windswept hair. "Can you tell me yet? Why you left…?"

Stan grimaced. He couldn't. After all this time he couldn't, this was something he meant to take to the grave. Even if he told him, he wouldn't believe it. He'd murdered Kenny Mccormick, and the fallen angel rose again from the mouth of hell. Stan had no choice but to run away then…So, what would happen now he was back? What could he say to Kyle?

"It's…It's okay Stan. You don't have to…" Kyle's lip trembled, the person he was closest to in the world absent for so long and still closed off to him. "I'm sorry. I'll find a way to make you understand why, but…What happened to this town Kyle?"

Kyle's hands rested over Stan's shoulders and he remained silent. Stan's knees felt weak even as he was leaning against the wall for support. What was it that he couldn't tell him?

"There was something about this cult…And a mass suicide…" Kyle's voice fell to a hushed whisper. "Without you or Kenny I've been so alone…"

"What do you mean? Where's Kenny?" Stan's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Kenny's dead, Stan."


	4. Chapter 4: Second Prelude

Stan could not forget the way it had happened; the way their eyes  
had connected, and the way Kenny struggled before giving in to sink  
to the bottom of Stark's pond with an eerily serene smile. Clutching  
a bottle of whiskey Stan took a heavy draught hoping to form a black  
spot in his memory, pouring out some of the amber liquid over the  
makeshift grave marker he'd made by the lake. He had dragged over a  
thick fallen branch from a tree and cut a few smaller branches off  
to form a cross on a packed mound of snow.

He said prayers he'd memorized in church. Nothing he held too  
strongly to, but recited out of habit hoping to appease anyone  
watching him. He was too absorbed in his own recitation to take  
notice of the pale, nearly blue-tinted figure rising out of the icy  
water in the nude walking across the snow behind him.

"Are you alright, Stan? Now that you have seen the world as it truly is?"

Stan scrambled away, his back to the grave marker, reaching for the  
club-sized branch. Kenny was supposed to be dead and there he stood.  
Stan gaped, Kenny's visage terrifying him. "Only those who have seen  
may bear witness to the rise of the mad dreamer's kingdom. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! Ia! Ia!"

Kenny's cloudy, icy stare and slow shamble, hoarsely breathing in  
tongues of the world's demise stirred Stan to get to his feet and  
swing the branch at him, the dense wood colliding with the blonde's  
head and knocking him into the snow.

He tried to stand but Stan was over him, swinging down again and  
again making a bloody snow angel out of Kenny. When he was finished  
he let loose a hail of vomit beside the corpse before he could stumble away back to his house, drinking until he blacked out.

In the morning, he saw a second pair of footprints in the snow  
leading to his home and he knew he had to leave town.


	5. Chapter 5: A Headstone

"Committed ten years ago for coprophilia, released. Recently  
recommitted voluntarily for suicide watch after he got mixed up with  
a cult. Not the first cult he's joined either." Craig irreverently  
read Kyle's asylum record aloud. "He only ever talks about you. He's  
obsessed." Stan looked like his brain had gone out to lunch and left  
him sitting there blankly.

"Are you even listening, you asshole? If you want me to sign Kyle  
out into your care, you need to take care of him." Craig grimaced at  
Stan as they sat across from eachother in the front office by the  
entrance.

"Kyle's going to be okay." Stan naturally got defensive. Kyle was  
strong. Stan would have his own cell here at the asylum if he had  
been stubborn enough to stay in South Park. Craig pressed Stan, his  
own impression being that Kyle was shaken. "It's not enough to just  
be there. You have to take care of him."

Stan lashed irritably, "Like Tweak?"

Predictably, Craig flipped him off; but he signed the form in a dismissive flourish of a blue pen afterward. "Just get out of here, the both of you, before Butters and Cartman show up to piss me off too."

"Hey, fellas!" Butters busked his way through the front door with a  
shove of his shoulders, balancing a basket of baked goods in his  
arms. "I hope it's not too late in the day that you'd turn down a  
muffin?" This seemed like part of a routine and Craig was tired of  
seeing it based on his particularly flat expression, the orderly  
quietly shuffling away. The cheery blonde blinked and suddenly  
noticed Stan, flushed with surprise.

"Stan! How the heck are ya? Can I have a hug?" Butters rushed to put the basket of muffins on the help counter before opening his arms for an embrace. Stan was obviously too slow in rejecting the motion as he was wrapped up in Butter's arms; the boy dressed in immaculately clean brown boots, khakis, and a heavy blue sweater over a white button-up.

"I'm sorry, it's just awfully nice to see you." Butters pulled away  
after a few seconds, feeling how Stan tensed uncomfortably. "Took  
you long enough to visit, doggone it. I guess Kyle won't have to  
bother talking with me anymore…Now that you're back." Butters gave  
a bashful smile and tugged on Stan's sleeve as he looked away. "Do  
you want to see Eric? He's just outside keeping the car warm."

Stan shook his head. "No, I don't have much time to catch up right  
now." Butters nodded, "I understand, you and Kyle want some time alone.  
You two were always like that." Stan wasn't sure what it was about  
Butters, but something had changed. Less nervous, maybe? He held  
Stan's eyes and didn't fidget like he usually did. Stan tucked the  
signed release form into his jacket before thinking to ask, "Cartman…He comes around here too? And talks to Kyle?"

"Only sometimes. Most times Kyle tells him to go away. I don't get  
why he's so fussy, Eric visited me a lot when I was committed and he  
was a lot of help. Lots of Kyle's friends tried to help, but I guess  
we all know who he was waiting for…" Butters rambled on about the  
old gang and baking muffins for the hospital while rusty cogs  
scraped together painfully as they turned in Stan's mind. Had Kyle  
lied about no one visiting him? Why?

"Can we leave now…?" Kyle's voice instantly pierced through Stan's  
foggy thoughts, turning him around to face the redhead dressed in  
plainclothes and his ushanka. "Yeah, we're free to go. Just catching  
up with Butters." Stan tried to gauge Kyle's expression but it was  
completely placid as he politely greeted Butters, "I guess with me  
gone, the last of us still in care are Timmy and Tweak, huh…?"

"Yep…And I'll keep baking muffins for them until they're well  
again! Do you want to take your usual with you Kyle?" Butters  
plucked one from the basket and held it out. "Every morning at the  
asylum I wanted a blueberry muffin and never did get one. Made a  
batch first thing getting out, and I've been bringing everyone's  
favorites since. There's coffee cake for Tweak, cinnamon apple for  
Timmy, and raspberry ginger for Kyle. I thought that was just a mean  
joke from Eric at first, but I guess you like it a lot huh?"

Kyle accepted the wrapped muffin and took a bite, "Yeah, they're  
really good. It's very nice of you to do." Butters knocked his boot  
on the carpet, "Shucks, that's just who I am. You enjoy that Kyle,  
and come knocking if you want more." Butters rushed in for a hug on  
unsuspecting Kyle and got a pat on the back for his trouble. With  
the blonde skipping into the asylum proper carrying the basket Kyle  
and Stan headed for the door.

The pair clasped hands and walked down the asylum steps, Stan  
noticing Cartman parked on the street. The fat boy waved and Stan  
returned the gesture in a perfunctory fashion, finding it difficult  
to greet him when he had murdered his best friend who had apparently  
been staying dead this time. Kyle didn't wave, he was taken aback  
looking at the sky outside unframed by barred windows, when Cartman  
honking his horn made him nearly jump.

"Fucking fatass…!" the redhead spat, his irritation sounding less  
reminiscent of his nostalgic banter with Cartman than Stan would  
have expected. The corpulent brunette could be seen laughing in the  
front seat, distracted by Butters rushing to the passenger side door  
after dropping off the muffins. Cartman sped away while the best  
friends were still leisurely walking to Stan's car, sharing a moment  
of silence sitting inside.

"Sorry for the mess." Stan tried to excuse himself seeing Kyle  
peeved at his slobbishness, throwing around junk and garbage in the  
car. Food wrappers, cans, bottles, boxes, mail, forming the cargo of  
his mobile office. "Uhm…Where should we go?"

"Can we go to the cemetery? It's nearby." Kyle murmured, settling  
back into that quiet and reflective state of mind he'd been in  
before Cartman rattled him. "Sure." Stan smoothly pulled out of the  
parking lot and followed the signs, sharing the quiet with his friend.  
Listening to his breathing, stealing glances out of the corner of his eye.  
He should have come sooner. Whatever had happened while he was gone…  
He shouldn't have thought of just saving himself.

A dirty, snowy path at the end of the road lead into a large field with rows of headstones. Stan could tell Kyle was impatient to get out of the car and he pulled over to the shoulder of the road, following the redhead quickly exiting the car for a brisk walk to a large black slab that looked like marble with a brass plate bearing a long list of names. Kyle knelt down and removed the winter glove on his right hand to drag his right index finger across the plate's inscription as if he were reading braille.

Memorial to the victims of the South Park Cult of Cthulhu riot and mass suicide.

The enormity of it was too much for Stan, dozens of lives worth of survivor's guilt staring up coldly from the ground. He was still blissfully ignorant, every name he read would be cemented in his mind as a person he could have at least tried to warn. Amidst the rows of neatly punched type was one name that looked like it had been defaced with a chisel. First name: Unreadable. Last name: Mccormick. On reflex Stan whipped around expecting to see a ghost with blue-tinted skin and hollow eyes. That frightful apparition was not behind him, but Kenny Mccormick was. Questions tumbled in his head rising to the surface all at once. Kenny looked Stan in the eyes but greeted Kyle who turned with a look of surprise that melted into a smile. "You're back!"

"Guess they let me out on good behavior? Trying to leave a psych ward once you've committed yourself is a real catch-22 sort of predicament…" Kenny crunched over the snow on approach and Stan was frozen to the spot. "Stan…" the blonde smiled and overtook his reflexes swooping in for a hug, whispering in his ear. "You shouldn't have come back. And you shouldn't stay." He tried to pull away when Stan aggressively grabbed his collar to whisper back, "Kyle's coming with me."

Kenny had no reply to that, Kyle himself interjecting, "Hey, what's with you two?" Stan tried to deflect the hint at some kind of ill will between him and the undying monster he'd drowned and beaten to death with a club, "I thought you said Kenny hadn't been around to talk to you?" Kyle wasn't dropping the issue with Stan's behavior toward their mutual friend but answered, "He couldn't, not lately. He was put in solitary confinement. He was getting cabin fever, acting out, kept managing to sneak out of the asylum…"

Kenny's smile was conspiratory. "Craig overreacted, recommending me for solitary. He's seen the light. Probably figures the farther I am from his precious hot cup of Tweak the better." Seeing the befuddlement on Stan's face Kyle explained, "Kenny started spouting some crazy shit when he swore off his medication. He must have said the wrong thing because Tweak's convinced that Death is following Kenny."

"I see." Stan tried not to look too intrigued. As a detective, that sounded like a lead…But he didn't mean to investigate the events of this horrible past that he'd fled. He'd help Kyle bury those haunting memories and they could live a new life somewhere.

"I've brought flowers, for you." Kenny dips for a bow and presents a pair of orchids from his parka. Kyle rolls his eyes and accepts them to place over the grave. "Thanks. I was just thinking I didn't have any…You didn't steal those did you?" Kenny made a cross gesture over his heart and another behind his back to make a promise and break it simultaneously, "I swear I did not steal those flowers from another grave."

"Good. I'm going to walk back to the car. Stan…You ought to look. For their sakes. I'll be waiting." Kyle squeezed his arm and walked away leaving Stan to look death in the face one way or the other. Reading the inscription was preferable to speaking anymore with the enigmatic Kenny and he started to read. It was quickly numbing him, those repeated jabs to his heart, eyes darting from one name to the other with no order. The parents of many of the young adults in South Park were dead. The Stotches, the Tweeks, the Blacks, the Donovans, the Tuckers, the Biggles, The Burches, the Valmers, the Testabergers, the Nelsons, the Stevens, Liane Cartman, Jimbo Kern…It just went on and on, maybe fifty names in all from this small community. His eyes got glassy and he was scanning for the Marshes…Randy Marsh. Stan bit his lip and dug his nails into his palms. What the fuck had happened here?

"You shouldn't stay. You shouldn't try to 'get to the bottom of it all'. The smart part of you is telling you to take the person you've come for out of here." Kenny urged in a low voice.

Gerald and Sheila Broflovski were written on the slab. Was this something Stan could hope to bury in Kyle's heart with enough days of peace and contentment? Was he to remain clueless of the reasons for Kyle's night terrors or bouts of depression? "Did you do this?" Stan asked.

"No, I tried to stop it Stan. I'm sorry." Kenny was speaking firmly, but he wavered when Stan spat accusingly, "Was it your fault?"

"I…Yes, I suppose it was my fault, Stan. If I could just stay dead none of this would have happened." Kenny sounded hurt and Stan was surprised he could still feel at all. "The ones who did it then, are they dead?" Stan had to know whoever was responsible wasn't still out there.

Kenny was very hesitant to answer. "No. But I'm making it right. I don't need your help. Take Kyle away from here." Stan was getting frustrated with that gruff and impersonal tone of voice Kenny was using to mask his wounded pride, like the hooded superhero he'd made up as a kid. Stan wasn't buying it, "Fuck off, I didn't want to help you anyway. Don't come near me or Kyle again." He was stomping away, Kenny's sad voice trampled underneath the sound of compacting snow, "Alright. Goodbye Stan."

Stan heaved a heavy sigh reaching his car, listlessly throwing open the driver side door and sitting inside. He was already buckled up and adjusting his mirrors when he noticed his 9 mil turning in Kyle's hands. "Kyle! What the fuck are you doing!" Stan's hands flew to Kyle's and only squeezed finding that the redhead wasn't resisting, smoothly taking the gun away. Kyle's bright green eyes that once held the tone of a healthy plant looked faded with unflattering grey. "I…We have to kill them, Stan."

"What? No, Kyle, we have to leave…" Stan was mumbling, looking from the rear-view at the spot of orange moving away amidst the white snow and the blobs of grey stone. "Only we can make it right, Stan. Please. We have to avenge our families. We have to save the world again." His best friend…He was blurring the line between a state of driven vindication and a state of mania. The thin, bare fingers of Kyle's right hand were like ice reaching up to Stan's cheek and stroking, moving in and pressing kisses to his jaw pleading in pitiable whispers. Stan shivered and exhaled shakily, his breath visible with the chill in the air, sealing their fate with a returned kiss.

They made love on the side of the road by the cemetery in the back of Stan's car. The reason and the circumstances were mad and their coupling was unhinged, consigning themselves to share a battlefield with nameless horrors.


	6. Chapter 6: A Home

"Who do we have to kill exactly?" Stan was glad to act as a big spoon again, Wendy wasn't much for cuddling. She was cold like that. Kyle was burning hot enough for the both of them, nude under a lavender colored quilt in the back of the car. Kyle turned in his arms and directed Stan to turn as well, swapping their roles.

"You smell nice, Stan." Kyle's nose nudged about Stan's ear and made him tremble. "Please answer me," Stan pleaded. "I'm not actually sure. It's hard to explain." Kyle splayed his fingers over Stan's stomach, chin hanging over the crook of his shoulder. "They've killed Kenny. Those bastards. Understand?" Their cheeks pressed together as Stan quickly craned his head back in surprise, "Yes. But when did you realize…?" Kyle hugged Stan tightly, nuzzling against him. "Kenny made sure I remembered, it wasn't long after we committed ourselves. Please don't ask how…"

This infuriated Stan and he fought to calm himself as Kyle was responding to his tensing, stroking him and speaking gently. "Please don't be mad at him. It's important that we know. I don't blame him. But he said he was going to stop that cult on his own, and he failed. It's up to us now." Stan took heart in that and clutched one of Kyle's hands to squeeze, agreeing, "Up to us."

"We have to find a way to stop Cthulhu from coming back again, or he'll really kill us all this time. We should try hitting the books first thing tomorrow," Kyle planned, always turning to books first when he couldn't find the answer. In Stan's experience, you got real answers from real people. They weren't going to accomplish their mission in a day…"Where are we going to stay? We aren't sleeping in my car. And I don't have the money to spend much time in a hotel."

Kyle sighed at Stan acting like a skinflint, that was supposed to be his job. "I like sleeping in your car, it's romantic." Kyle had a unique sense of romance like that, it was something adventurous and charming. "It's not safe," Stan was sad to say. South Park didn't feel like his childhood home anymore; the creeping shadows of the unknown were growing taller and taller and he was too paranoid to rest easy under the same stars without a good locked door and a few sets of walls between him and the night.

"Your house." Kyle offered the idea gently, but it still stung Stan. That wasn't his house anymore. His parents had divorced and the kids moved out, it wasn't a home. And his father…Kyle was around him, trying to ease the pain, "You have to deal with it sometime. Sell it if that's what you want, but that'll take time and it's someplace to stay. I miss your bed, don't you?"

It took some time languidly kissing and stretching together until they felt able to extricate themselves from eachother; hurriedly dressing as the cold was assaulting their pale bodies before returning to their seats up front, both smiling inwardly at the lingering of their combined scents from the sex. "The deed and the key is at the bank. Your father gave power of attorney to my dad. Since what happened…I've handled all of his old paperwork." Kyle understood a good deal of the law and of taxes…Maybe he'd make a good assistant after this all blew over? He ought to talk to Wendy sometime soon, but it felt wrong to do with Kyle watching. He just nodded along with what Kyle was saying and drove to the bank to collect what they needed to get into the house. Stan's old home…He could still visualize those telltale footprints in the snow, the harbinger that sent him running away like a coward.

Stan had been worried about Kyle when he first saw him in the asylum. Looking wild and disheveled, hanging by a thread, rushing to Stan in his unhappy uniform of white. Color had returned to Kyle, he was glowing and leading the charge to secure their lodging for the night, which Stan was grateful for. He found himself always keeping Kyle in his sight, right at hand like a torch guiding the way. Kyle asked to take over for the short drive to the old Marsh home after visiting the bank and Stan was happy to oblige. They parked out on the street and Stan didn't budge from the seat until Kyle came around and opened the passenger door, reaching to undo his seatbelt and take him by the hand to the front door. With his eyes pointed at the ground by Kyle's boots he saw the matt before the front door proclaiming 'welcome home' and he felt sick. Kyle unlocked the door to a dusty waft of warm air from inside, sending Stan staggering to puke in the bushes. Kyle's gloved hand was stroking and patting him on the back until his seizing had stopped. He reached for the flask from his jacket but Kyle's arm snapped like a viper and snatched it from him once it came into his view. "Give it back!" Stan felt ashamed at the venom in his voice, but Kyle was already taking long strides inside the house. "Come on, Stan."

Stan trudged inside, head bowed, feeling like he didn't belong in this house anymore. Kyle was doing his best to make it seem welcome, sweeping at dust with a broom and throwing open the windows. Stan marched in and checked the fridge in the kitchen. Inside there was still a box of baking soda, a bottled water, and a six pack of his father's favorite India pale ale. He never did like the bitter stuff, so he took the water and rinsed out his mouth a few times, spitting in the sink while Kyle buzzed about sprucing things up.

Stan heard the clicking of boots and turned around to see Kyle with his hands behind his back. "Can I have my flask back now?" Stan mumbled and Kyle shook his head, unscrewing the cap and throwing his head back to down the spirits left inside while Stan protested and closed the distance between them. Kyle gulped down maybe two and a half shots worth or more in one pull and gave a warm smile with his eyes heavy-lidded; swaying forward to fall against Stan, dropping the flask to bounce on the floor and winding his arms around his neck. Kyle tilted his chin up and pressed a wet open kiss to Stan's mouth, Stan digging his tongue in tasting alcohol; licking up all he could making Kyle groan from the rough and needy stimulation. Kyle felt hazy and clung to Stan as he was carried to the living room couch, limbs falling limp as the Marsh heir went about closing the windows with the air significantly fresher and a chill from outside settling in.

The two males shed their outer layers regardless of the chill: their boots, gloves, hats, and jackets in a pile beside the couch. Kyle wound around Stan, fingers under his shirt feeling along the grooves of his ribs while the raven-haired boy took notice of his phone buzzing and picked up, the redhead's fingers feeling Stan's exasperated breath, quietly listening in.

"Hello? Yes, I'm fine Wendy. Kyle's fine. Yes, he was released from the mental hospital. Tonight we're-" Kyle pulled Stan's wrist aside and hung his chin over his toned shoulder to speak to the girl on the other end of the line. "Wendy?"

"Hi, Kyle. I, uh, wasn't expecting to hear from you." Wendy and Kyle traded pleasantries with a thin vein of contempt throughout, "Neither was I. Stan hadn't mentioned you."

"He's more worried about you." Wendy returned without falter. "He just dropped everything and rushed over to see you. Some things never change do they?" Kyle gave a pleasant-sounding hmm, "Some things, no…Stan and I will be staying the night here. We should be back in Denver soon. Take care of yourself, Wendy." the raven-haired girl on the other end gave half a laugh and a sigh, "You take care of yourself, Kyle. Stan too." Kyle deflated slightly, hearing those last two words from Wendy. "I will. Thanks. I'll remind Stan to call you again soon."

Stan pulled Kyle's free hand from under his shirt tickling along his ribs and squeezed it firmly. "Wendy just got divorced from Gregory, you know." Kyle nuzzled against the base of Stan's neck, fingers lacing with Stan's. "I'm sorry to hear that…But I never did like Gregory. Had an affair with a frenchman, I bet."

Stan scoffed, "No comment." The pair stewed in silence for some time until they settled on their sides front to back on the couch. The stillness was unnatural. Both of them missed the noises of the dog, the tv, and Randy mostly. Sharon had left after the divorce and Shelley went too, but Sharon knew how important Stan's friends were to him and he stayed in South Park with his father. When Randy found out about Stan and Kyle being together he overreacted of course, made an ass out of himself, but he apologized and made up. He got tears in his eyes and swore he loved Stan, and he'd love Kyle too if Stan did. There was something fragile about Randy once his family had splintered apart. When Stan ran away Randy looked to Kyle for answers, and could hardly believe that his son wouldn't tell him where he went. He found out he was in Denver eventually, but was afraid to reach out to him, not knowing himself why Stan had run away. "What happened to my dad, Kyle…?"

The redhead reached up and thumbed away the tears he had predicted would be forming from Stan's eyes, "That cult happened Stan." Cyanide posioning claimed many, taken with a sacrament of wine in a dark ritual. He didn't want to lay it all out for Stan explicitly, it felt like too much. Stan turned onto his back and stared angrily up at the ceiling, vision blurring. "But why did it happen?"

"The same as any other…They promised to send people to a place better than the one they knew. Just…Another stupid thing the adults of this town latched onto and let grow out of proportion, roping all of us into it." Kyle felt heavy sinking into the couch, he wouldn't keep anything from Stan now. But would Stan…"Why did you leave?" Kyle had asked that question thousands of times and couldn't wait any longer for an answer. Stan turned to face him, the narrow rivers of tears under his eyes dried up. "I killed Kenny," he intoned gravely. "But he just kept coming back…He haunted me. I tried to explain it to you and you didn't remember any of it when he returned…I had to go on my own. I knew he wouldn't hurt you. I knew his secret, so I could leave or I could sleep on the floor of Stark's pond."

Kyle couldn't believe that the Kenny he knew would hurt Stan, but he trusted Stan utterly. "In the graveyard, what did he say to you?"

"He said to take you and leave town." Stan gripped Kyle's shoulder and their gazes hardened, taking strength in one another.

"We're not leaving until this is settled," Kyle swore. The two embraced each other and the silence returned to the ghostly Marsh house. The sun began it's descent over the mountains as they rested, letting time creep by in each other's presence, willing it to slow just for them.


	7. Chapter 7: A Secret

"What do you know about black magic?" Kyle asked, he and Stan were dressed down to their briefs and boxers respectively, the quilt from Stan's car spread over their laps and leftover Chinese takeout on TV trays in front of the couch. The redhead's ominous interjection made Stan turn his head. "Nothing. What do you know?"

"Entirely too much, I guess." Kyle laughed, clear to him that he'd have to explain more as Stan stayed quiet brimming with expectation. Stan had been interviewing Kyle all night to fill him in on the activities of the cult to try and find out who was pulling the strings trying to bring back Cthulhu. He had gotten a lot of the easier questions out of the way, but there were some he was struggling to ask. When things got too intense he would back off, but for now Kyle told his story.

"We learned black magic from the cult. Butters, Kenny, Cartman, and I. Cartman was like a pig in shit, he loved it. Kenny, Butters, and I didn't want to do it, but we couldn't back out while everyone else was still under their control. They were teaching us so we could take part in leading the ritual. We hoped we might find a way to stop them before that." Kyle winced and dug his fingers into his kinky hair, scrubbing over his scalp.

"What happened at the ritual?" Stan rasped out in a hoarse tone, his mouth and throat drying up. "We were supposed to kill Kenny after the rites, and it would give life back to Cthulhu. We sabotaged the ritual but...Outside of the vestige, all slumped in their pews were the dead. They never told us anyone else would be sacrificed...The higher ups of the cult went mad after the ritual failed and died by cop or ran off into the mountains, it was chaos. We weren't safe in our homes anymore so we committed ourselves in the mental hospital where they couldn't reach us. Cartman didn't wait long before he decided they weren't coming back."

Kyle was slumped against Stan, weary. Neither could keep up the questioning. "So we track them down and kill them?" Stan mumbled and Kyle nodded against his chest pushing him down onto his back on the couch.

"You're some kind of witch now?" Stan was bewildered looking up at Kyle, a fearful fire stoked in his gut.

"Yes..." Kyle leaned down and nipped at Stan's ears, tugging with teeth and stroking with his tongue. "How do you cast magic spells?" Stan was incredulous that this magic was possible, even with the dark miracles exhibited by Kenny. "You muster energy with the sacrament of blood...Or sex." Kyle's words rang against his ear and dripped with portent; Stan whimpering as his wrists were held down against the arm of the couch behind him, "What...?"

"Let me show you..." Kyle's breath was unbearably hot and Stan thrashed, "Kyle, stop it!" he sat up quickly and threw Kyle off of him to the other side of the couch. He'd never known Kyle to act so depraved..."You had sex with them?" Kyle pulled off his briefs and spread his legs, taunting Stan with his nudity. "Only Kenny, and I pretended it was you. I trust you did the same with Wendy? I'm not jealous, you shouldn't be either." Kyle clawed at Stan's boxers pulling them down around his thighs exposing his cock as it hardened against his will. "Having sex is preferable to spilling blood, isn't it? I need to cast a magic ward on you, to keep you safe from their influence. I need you to fuck me like a beast, Stan. Don't stop until I cum."

Was some dark influence warping him now? Kyle's eyes mesmerized him, his anatomy was almost painfully erect, and he was panting feeling a well of intense lust overcoming him. Stan lumbered forward, fingers digging into Kyle's hips as he picked up his knees and guided Stan where he needed to go, noticing him jabbing his prick forward inaccurately. "That's the way...You've always been so gentle with me, Stan...I'm a little excited to think what you might-Ahh!"

Kyle howled and arched his back off the couch. Stan had plunged his way inside and was battering him, Kyle's legs around Stan's waist with his feet jostling behind him wildly. The sultry redhead had asked for it hard before when they were in the car but Stan had still held himself back. His body started to sweat as he rained down on the one he loved with a fury, Kyle enjoying it immensely, his words a stream of some dark and melodious language Stan couldn't understand. Panting over Kyle rutting at such a doggish pace he thought he might orgasm on his own in short order, but despite the intense stimulation he couldn't build any higher than the cusp just under the edge he needed to cross.

Stan was groaning and bellowing, brain addled as he couldn't reach a climax or climb down from his rapid ascent, hips working themselves at a pace that ought to exhaust him in under a minute of burst effort but no soreness warned his muscles and he just kept moving. Kyle's incantations grew just as loud, his nails raking across Stan's back, eyes rolling back in his head; his entire body seized up in a rigor and his cock bounced against his belly spraying a copious volume that splattered and streaked clear up to his neck. Nails stabbing into Stan's glutes he held him to his hilt and rocked his lower body. Stan collapsed on top of him feeling all of the fatigue and sexual bliss he should at once, striking him down numb and nearly drooling emptying himself inside of Kyle who took advantage of his slack jaw for a deep manipulating kiss.

Stan felt like his consciousness had been stuffed under layers of thick wool and he struggled to surface in his own mind to make sense of what had just happened. Stan kissed back, but he pulled away with wide eyes to study Kyle's body. Glazed with lines of his own spunk over his torso, light reddish bruises over his hips where he'd been gripped. He was smiling up at Stan...The distress on Stan's face was apparent enough for Kyle to cup his cheeks and pull him close in an embrace, stroking his hair. "You'll be safe now. Just go to sleep, we have a lot to do tomorrow."

Stan felt sticky and unclean when he awoke with bright light pouring in from the windows. Checking the wrist watch amongst his heap of belongings on the floor revealed that it was already ten in the morning. Stan called out blearily for Kyle and stumbled upstairs in the nude, hearing the hair dryer on full blast. Opening the bathroom door he caught Kyle fighting for control against his unruly crimson locks: thousands of fluffy, defiant little corkscrews pointing in all directions. Kyle was wearing Stan's mother's old fuchsia colored bathrobe and it made him slightly uncomfortable but he let it be, climbing into the recently used shower stall and turning on the hot water.

"Good morning to you as well." Kyle snarked once he was finished with his hair, fluffing up the curls with his fingers, turning this way and that in the mirror. "I'm just thinking." Stan mumbled, one hand bracing against the wall and the other rubbing soap over his body. "Well, tell me what you're thinking. I'm a little starved for your attention if you haven't noticed." Kyle hadn't closely examined himself in a mirror for some time and had whittled the morning away caring for himself from shaving his body to plucking his eyebrows. He liked things smooth and tidy, striving for nothing less than perfection. Stan liked Kyle being smooth and tidy, but did not hold the same expectations for himself; though he would shave the stubble from his chin for the sake of cutting down friction when they were kissing. "Thinking about...This. I don't want to call it a case because I know you lived this, but that's how my mind is sorting it. I'm living it now too but I can feel myself disassociating from it all. I think we should spend the day gathering information. Two people I ought to get a word with are Butters and Cartman. By nightfall we should go up to..." He was about to say his Uncle's when he remembered the etchings upon the headstone and his forehead hit the wall. "To my uncle's." Kyle offered what consolation he could, " is still there...If you'd like to visit him?"

Stan shut off the water and reached for a towel from the nearby rack to dry himself, "Yeah, I'd like to talk to him. So, what are you thinking?" Kyle took the towel from Stan's hands and patted him dry all over with dutiful attention. "I'm thinking that there's still more cleaning to be done. We need some groceries, because I'll get an upset stomach if we eat out too often...And while you're having a word with Cartman...I think I should go talk to Kenny. Relax, you can trust me around him." Stan had tensed up at the mention of Kenny's name but went slack again with some humility. "I do trust you. But I don't trust him, so, be careful I guess."

Kyle had run their clothes through the washer and dryer so they had something to wear, and after they stopped at a cafe to have breakfast before they went their separate ways. Stan got a kiss from Kyle and let him off on the other side of the train tracks near Kenny's trailer park home with some trepidation before driving toward Cartman's. He parked out on the street and walked up to the door, knocking and waiting.

"I was wondering when you would show up. I'm sure Kyle had you up all night, making up for lost time...Is that a gun tucked in your belt or are you still thinking about him?" Eric Cartman was just as crass and inappropriate as always, but it made him uneasy more than ever to think that such traumatic things could happen to him and he'd still maintain a facade of flippancy. "May I come in?"

Cartman stepped aside and led him in, the house perfectly clean. Butter's handiwork, he'd assume, the cheery blonde nowhere to be seen. "Is Butters around? I wanted to ask you two some questions." Cartman led Stan to the kitchen and sat at the dinner table where he had a mug of coffee and a closed laptop. "He's on another goodwill mission to the asylum. Bless his fluffy heart, he's like a stupid puppy wanting to give everyone a kiss and make things better. What have you got to ask me, hmm?"

Stan sorted his thoughts and his knowledge of the case, wary about what to ask him. "You didn't stick around the asylum long?"

Cartman leaned back in his seat and took a draught of his coffee. "I didn't feel any safer locked into a box. If they wanted to come for me at home I'd welcome it, saves me the trouble of looking for them."

"And where are they do you think?" Stan saw a tired grey cat limping into the kitchen and over to a silver water dish. Cartman set his coffee down and folded his arms, "They could be anywhere in the mountains to the north, if they're still alive. But you lovebirds should leave the hunting to Kenny and I."

"Kenny said he'd do a lot of things, but it doesn't sound like he's followed through on them." Stan hinted at his intent and Cartman leaned forward with a serious look, "You do not want to go there yourselves. They've placed hexes and wards all over their territory. Maybe we could..." Stan interrupted what he was sure to be a proposal that they form a hunting party. "I've already told Kenny I don't want to associate with him." Cartman rested his cheek on the palm of his hand. "And I'm telling you that you can't go it alone. The manhunt for them turned up only one dead cultist, five dead cops, and your own uncle to boot. At the very least we can work in teams. Cover more ground, stay in touch, give support as necessary...I know you have plenty of reasons to hate Kenny but think of it this way: he's the one they want, and if we go into the woods together there will be a better chance of us all making it out alive." Stan's own ego still railed against the thought, but it was a reasonable idea, and if knowledge of black magic was necessary to penetrating cultist territory then they'd need more experts. "You've done your own research about this, I'm guessing?"

Cartman nodded and pushed out his chair to stand up. "Follow me." The pair entered the garage to find a rolling cabinet, desk, and corkboard; all overflowing with printouts, news clippings, and photographs. It skated a fine line between looking like a proper police evidence board and the sort of thing a serial killer would make with lots of red strings and circles drawn with different colored highlighters. His eyes fell to the bottom shelf of the rolling desk. The other shelves were ajar, overflowing with documents, but that one in particular was closed and padlocked and it drew his suspicions as a detective. A ringtone from Eric's pants pocket broke the silence and he took a quick look. "Oh, hell. I've got to pick up Butters from the asylum. Go ahead and read through the evidence I've got, it's about time someone with fresh eyes looked at it."

Stan nodded along and waited with bated breath for the fatass to leave. He had maybe ten minutes with Cartman likely to speed through the empty streets to and from the Asylum. With the noise of a car pulling away outside Stan bent down to examine the padlocked drawer, something in him screaming to find out what was inside. He checked the usual places for a key. Under, over, behind, inside a few knick knacks. Nine times out of ten the key was less than fifteen feet away from the lock. When the search turned up nothing he turned to the padlock. He tried '6-6-6' right away to no avail. He tried birthdays, including Hitler's, but that didn't work either. He kept a close eye on his watch; he wanted to get into that drawer and back out with the knowledge inside before Cartman returned. He pulled out the multi-tool from his jacket for the shim attachment inside, ready to get a bit invasive. Just a few wiggles at the hinge and the lock popped open, pulling it free to open the drawer.

Inside there were bundles upon bundles of envelopes. All penned by Kyle Broflovski to be sent to Stan Marsh. He numbly collected them into his arms protectively, holding them to his chest. Each one contained cries for help and intimate secrets from his true love that had been hidden away to keep them apart. He wasn't used to being the one that got hurt by breaking open a lock; he was always consoling his clients after he followed through with their wishes and confirmed their fears. He heard a car pull up outside but he stayed still. Everything in that cabinet belonged to him, it had his name on it, so he'd be taking them and if Cartman didn't want to get his pilfering hands fed to his own garbage disposal than the fatass would keep his mouth shut. What was he doing with these to begin with?

He heard the quiet domesticity inside the house as Cartman and Butters entered, Butters specifically carrying the conversation before Cartman interrupted, "I'll help in a minute, I've got Stan waiting in the garage." Butters called out with a chipper tone from the kitchen, "Hi, Stan! Do you want to have lunch with us?" Stan started stuffing the envelopes into his jacket, "No, thank you...! I'm not very hungry..."

Cartman walked into the garage to find Stan and the busted open drawer. He didn't saw a word, wearing a complacent kind of smirk that said 'now what?'. "You have an explanation for this?" Stan asked as evenly as he could, sure he had something to say. Cartman shrugged, "You seemed happy to stay out of this, Stan. I was under orders to intercept Kyle's letters. If you came back any sooner you could have gotten yourself and Kyle killed." Cartman had taken a few steps closer, hands up while he encouraged him to take it easy. Stan reached for one of the letters in the bundle from his jacket, "Kyle needed me, and he was forced to wait while the two of you fuckheads were too vain and incompetent to-"

Stan noticed the envelope in his hand had already been opened. His eyes swam up to look at Cartman who did not betray any inkling of guilt. In one smooth step forward Stan was throttling Cartman by his collar, throwing him into his desk. Once he was down Stan started stomping on him like an ugly bug. Butters rushed into the garage hearing Cartman's ragged shouts of pain, utterly shocked to find Stan assaulting him. He heard Butters making shrill pleas for him to stop but the words were indistinct. He was just a bystander, what he saw in Cartman he'd never know or care to know. He threw off Butters grabbing at him and stepped away from Cartman who was coughing and clutching at his ribs.

"Who told you to do it?" He'd said he was under orders, and this was the only information he needed from him now. Eric hardly wheezed out "Ken" before Stan turned on his heel and took a fast walk out of the Cartman house to his car, leaving Butters kneeling and checking the extent of the damage Stan did with his boot. He drove recklessly toward the rough side of town. He didn't trust Kenny Mccormick, but that wasn't enough. He had to disavow that hellspawn completely. He was ready to burst in and save Kyle from Kenny, kicking in the flimsy door of his trailer; but he was too late.

There was an aura that scenes of death had that he had become attuned to. An instinctual unease enveloped him. The smell of blood came next. He stepped slowly and lightly over the fake tile floor, drawing his gun. He neared the kitchen and saw blood from an expanding pool come into view. "Kyle...? Oh my god..."

The body was strewn over the tiled floor with multiple stab wounds to the chest and arms, limbs splayed in awkward angles; likely dying on his feet before falling. Kyle was covered in blood. Clutching a large kitchen knife, kneeling beside Kenny Mccormick's corpse. "You killed Kenny."

Kyle smiled up at him. That unbalanced grin disturbed Stan, putting his gun back into his belt, helping Kyle to his feet.

"It wasn't the right Kenny. I had to kill him. You understand, don't you, Stan?" Covered in red, Kyle's embrace stained him. It soaked through and stained the letters of love and longing he'd once penned from his cell in the mental asylum. Stan cried and embraced him back, dimly hearing the knife clatter to the ground. Time ticked by, blood seeped into the grout, and after setting fire to the trailer they drove out of town toward the mountain pass.


	8. Chapter 8: A Trap

They took the back roads driving north toward the mountains; Stan's knuckles turning white from clutching the steering wheel so tightly. It felt like there were bugs crawling around over his brain. When he looked in the rear view mirror he could still see the smoke rising from the fire they left burning behind them. Kyle rested a hand over Stan's shoulder with concern belying his own stability. "Stan, let me drive, you look like you need a break." Stan pulled over to the shoulder with the same promptness he'd have for a traffic cop, just numbly submitting and trailing off the road to a rolling stop. "What I need is a drink. A cigarette. A cup of coffee at least; anything to alter my brain chemistry," Stan mumbled. The pair switched seats without leaving the car; Stan sliding along the seat and Kyle leapfrogging over in a practiced routine. Kyle pressed a kiss to Stan's temple before putting the car out of park to get back on the road, saying, "That will have to do."

Stan was not feeling so confident anymore that they would survive this. They could wind up dead from wandering in the mountains with or without murderous cultists on the loose. "What did you mean when you said that wasn't the right Kenny?"

Kyle's driving was as choppy and rough as always, making Stan queasy as they took the tortuous, winding drive toward his deceased uncle's hunting lodge. "I meant what I said," Kyle insisted, "It was Kenny's body, but Kenny's soul wasn't inside of it. I did what I had to." Stan was silent. It was nothing he hadn't done before. Stan started pulling the bloodstained envelopes from his jacket. "Kenny told Cartman to keep your letters from reaching me. That's what he said. Why would they do that?"

Kyle paid his question with little mind, eyes forward watching the road, "I don't know." The way he said it bothered Stan, the statement left hanging with an obscured truth. He looked over the letters and grabbed for one, started to open it, but Kyle's hand flew out and grabbed his wrist. "Would you mind...? Waiting a bit longer to read those? It's not the right time." That bothered Stan further, but if it was just a bit longer to wait he could do it.

"I'm sorry. You'll understand later. Would you sit a bit closer?" Kyle patted the center seat and Stan slid over to occupy it, putting them thigh to thigh together. Stan let his head fall over Kyle's shoulder, rolling against Kyle's neck as he was rocked by the car. For a brief moment the atmosphere felt normal. The sky was changing colors transitioning into the evening, with the stars far more visible than in the city. The soft green lights from the dashboard glowed against his cheeks as he leaned on Kyle and took in wafts of floral scent from those conditioned red curls.

However, the stains of blood still clung to them both accusingly, and once one of the splotches on Kyle's sweater entered his vision again the moment was over. He couldn't imagine a life after all of this.

"Hey, it's going to be okay." Feeling moisture from Stan's eyes against the crook of his neck, one of Kyle's hands left the wheel and wrapped around Stan's shoulder to lay over his head, fingers brushing along his scalp. "Finally having you back...We won't get separated again." Stan fell asleep in that position, his mind sinking again under layers like wool. He'd been having these strange emotional spells since he came 'home'. Simply too much stress at once, he reasoned.

When Stan awoke, the car was already parked. Kyle had turned in his seat to hold Stan as he slept. They were just outside the old Kern cabin and all of the lights were off. Stan craned his neck up to see Kyle's pleasant smile, asking, "How can you smile?"

"You give me strength," Kyle said conspiratorially, kissing Stan's forehead, "Let's go. I think Ned could use a friend or two to visit with."

The pair clasped hands and walked up a flight of wooden stairs to the door where Jimbo usually received guests, ringing the door bell. They were left waiting longer than a full minute before the door was opened by Ned. Ned looked ghastly. He was always a crusty, grizzled war vet missing an arm and speaking through a voice box, but he had no color left in him; his spirit left frayed and faded. He had on nothing more than slippers, white briefs, a ratty red bathrobe, and his glasses. He remained silent and Kyle took the opportunity to speak, "Mr. Gerblansky! Stan's finally come home. We wanted to see you together...Are you alright?"

Ned croaked into a series of lidded, hiccuping belches forcing up some kind of guttural speech: "Lost. Voice. Box." Kyle, with all of his social graces, continued to act like he was unaware of Ned's disheveled appearance, "Oh! Well, why don't we help you look?"

Ned was hesitant to turn the lights on but Kyle insisted and in short order they were combing the house for Ned's voice box. He hadn't needed it in some time and so he had no recollection of where he'd left it. Half searching, half cleaning, they did end up finding the missing curio after awhile, hidden under the armchair Ned usually sat in in the living room. His voice, robotic as it was, offered some embarrassment; "I didn't see it last time I looked there. Thank you. What can I do for you?"

Stan was going to impart their immediate need of a heavy arsenal but Kyle interrupted, "We could use a place to sleep for the night, if you don't mind." Ned hesitated but gave a nod. Stan knew without asking that they'd be sleeping on the foldout couch bed downstairs in the den like they used to do as boys. That was a given. Ned offered, "You want a beer?" Stan jumped on the offer to Kyle's chagrin and followed Ned to the kitchen, but his enthusiasm was short lived seeing that there were only two beers left in the fridge. They drank and they talked, Ned taking his mind off of things getting Stan to talk about his life in Denver.

This line of discussion interested Kyle as well. Stan told a few of his better stories from working as a private investigator; like the time he was doing domestic surveillance on a husband suspected of cheating, and it turned out the guy was having an affair with a cow. "Reminds me of the chicken fucker," Kyle mused, working on an evening meal for the three of them: a pot of water working to a boil for some ears of corn to go into, and a pan being heated for a trio of thick elk sausages.

The aroma of sizzling meat and the amber beer sloshing in Stan's belly sedated him, but Ned still looked haunted where he sat across from him at the table, the finer details of his eyes obscured by dark glasses. "Ned, are you okay?"

Ned croaked without the aid of his voice box a plaintive, "No."

"You...Do you miss my uncle?" no one broached the subject he was certain, but perhaps someone needed to.

"Yes." Ned solemnly nodded.

"It's okay," Stan eased uncertainly, just saying what anyone would without anything better in mind.

"No." Ned rose from his seat, looking around uneasily, "It's not okay. No matter how much I miss him it's not okay."

"Ned, calm down." Stan rose in tandem, not seeing anything in particular in the direction of the vet's glances.

"I'm sorry, Stan. For even considering..." Ned was fumbling with the gun cabinet on the wall holding a bevy of shotguns and rifles. "Ned, what are you doing!" Stan rushed over and had a shotgun passed into his hands.

Ned's face was full of shame, looking out the window, "They know you're here. It's a trap."

"What's going on?" Kyle rounded the corner from the kitchen full of worry seeing the two handling firearms.

There was a shrill ring vibrating in the air that made Stan wrench his eyes shut and stumble while flashes of red light overwhelmed his closed eyelids. He heard Ned's gun go off nearby, sending aftershocks of ringing through his ears that muffled the shouting. Figures in black robes were fighting their way into the house with only as much resistance as three stunned people could muster. Kyle called out, "Stan, shoot them!" and the next thing Stan knew he'd let loose two bursts of buckshot that felled two people crashing through the front door, mechanically reloading after the fact. Kyle was quickly looming over the fresh corpses with outstretched palms, muttering in that abyssal tongue while taking a sacrament of blood.

Stan turned around to hold the back entrance with Ned, seeing black figures dashing toward the house. Gunfire and the bellows of arcane witchcraft alike were making plumes of sulfurous stench and loosing lethal bolts of light. Ned croaked some apology to Stan again unable to use his wrist-mounted voice-box. A bolt of red lightning arced through the air winding like a snake and struck Ned in the chest, sending him flying back, writhing and cupping his wrist to his mouth; that electronic tone screeching out for Stan in an unintelligible scramble before clicking and crackling into nothing.

Stan rushed to hold Ned and watched the light in his eyes wane as Kyle stormed onto the back porch, incantations and hand gestures signaling the start of some irreversible process that wrought blood curdling screams from the attackers outside.

There were eight dead cultists in total, five by fatal gunshot wounds and three by what a coroner may identify as cardiac arrest from being struck by lightning.

Kyle found Stan back inside performing chest compressions on Ned, and when that wasn't working he attempted rescue breathing to his stoma. Cycling back to another round of chest compressions, Stan looked up at Kyle in desperation, heaving with exerted effort, "Can't you help?"

None of the magic Kyle had learned was intended to save people, but he'd try anything to spare Stan the pain of losing another loved one. Kyle directed Stan to move clear and held his palms over Ned's bare chest. Uttering an incantation, Kyle delivered a dose of electrical energy to the heart. The vet's weathered body spasmed, mouth gaping and stoma whistling. Kyle's hair stood on end but the current did not effect him. Kyle and Stan both were holding their breath and let it out with great relief when Ned's chest started to rise and fall once more.

"Was that all of them?" Stan observed the two cloaked and fallen in the house, with more strewn outside. "There ought to be five more," Kyle asserted, "We should go now and find them. , you knew they were coming here...It doesn't matter why now, but where were they coming from?" Kyle repeated himself, urged Ned to focus on his voice.

"North. A cave," the voice box's projection was greatly distorted but they could just make out those few words. "Stan, let's go," Kyle didn't bother to get a gun but turned off the stove in the kitchen and brought a phone to Ned.

"We can't just leave him here, he almost died..." Stan looked on, the smells of cooked meat and spilled blood making him gag. "Go. Finish it," Ned instructed Stan before Kyle could insist. They couldn't afford to let the elusive leadership of the cult escape now. "It can all end tonight, and then we can leave together," Kyle motivated Stan before addressing Ned, "Call the police once we've left, tell them you were attacked." Kyle pulled Stan's arm to move out into the cold through the back door, Stan dragging behind and leaving his eyes on Ned as he was guided away.

Kyle was driven, walking briskly over the thick snow that was getting topped off by a fresh falling layer that would blanket the smoldering dead outside. Stan held on to his shotgun and struggled to keep up, struggled to see through the darkness and the foggy snowfall between the towering pines. They headed due north, an aura of killing intent radiating from Kyle sending nocturnal fauna close by scurrying for cover. Their fear of the witch was well founded, a human predator hunting human prey single-mindedly like a blood hound while his handler trailed behind unable to keep up. They hugged along the face of a mountain and followed it until Kyle identified the entrance of a tunnel system. Moving inside, the air grew warm and humid while the frigid wind outside howled with alarm.

Stan stepped ahead to lead to be of use with his shotgun, and out of the blue when Kyle shouted "Right!", Stan turned and fired down a pitch black corridor that lit up in a flash. The spray of buckshot was devastating in the narrow paths, Stan chambering the next round. "That way!" Kyle conjured a source of light that enveloped them like a globe, spurring Stan to charge down the hall once they stepped over the fallen. The sounds of running feet echoed off the walls, multiple pairs ahead of them.

The path suddenly terminated into a chasm with a spiral staircase running the circumference going down, chiseled from stone. One of Stan's feet stepped too far and suddenly he was falling down the center of the stairwell. Kyle jumped off with him from a height that would surely kill them both, but their descent crawled to the speed of a falling feather. Suspended in Kyle's aura they fell with grace, hearing a cacophony of blasphemous shouting below sending bolts of red light that glanced off of their shield. While keeping magic out, it did not keep lead in, and from the safety of the barrier Stan fired on their attackers. Alighting to the floor and counting the dead, there was one cultist remaining through an open and roughly hewn portcullis, shouting in a panic facing away from them and kneeling on the floor.

Kyle pushed his way past Stan and moved into the inner sanctum. There was blood on the walls; writing and sigils, charred herbs and melted candles. The man before them looked to be in his mid-40s, with short silver hair in a buzzed cut, bearing the kind of deranged expression Stan saw often working alongside police apprehending criminals. Given the context and the tone of his voice, Stan surmised that he was pleading to Kyle for his life in their forbidden language. A part of his expression registered as confusion to Stan. Given the context it should make sense, but Stan was missing something vital to understanding the bigger picture. He came to realize this when the man addressed Stan in his native tongue: "Don't you want your father back?"

Stan looked on agape, what did he mean? Before he could ask, Kyle palmed a knife from the altar and drove it into the man's neck, seething, "You can't bring them back." It sounded like an indictment, but a refusal as well. Blood pooled on the stone floor and held Stan's unmoving gaze while Kyle fitfully started to throw the chamber into dissaray: smearing the symbols, setting their damned spell book ablaze, and casting the reagents of their witchcraft to the ground.

Kyle had stretched his will for so long he snapped and cried into his hands when Stan dropped his gun and pulled Kyle away from the ruined altar. The pair leaned on each other during the long walk up and out of the cultist's hideout, stumbling through the snow back toward the lodge and their car.

Two police cruisers were parked near the lodge, and an officer canvassing the area approached the sullen, shaken pair drenched in blood. "Detective Stan Marsh? Kyle Broflovski?"

Stan nodded along, "That's us, officer." The cop checked his notes and read along with them as he spoke, "Your...Family friend, Mr. Gerblansky, told us you were abducted by members of the Cult of Cthulhu after a gun battle. So, you got away?"

Stan replied bluntly, "We killed them, then we left." The officer closed his notes and displayed no alarm, "Good work. You're free to go." Stan thanked the man who looked on sympathetic as they went back to their car. He eased Kyle inside and took the driver's seat for himself. It may seem suspect for an officer of the law to have had such a reaction, but it made enough sense to Stan. Small town cops are notorious for keeping their affairs private to protect the community, and given the atrocities the cult committed from the mass suicide and riot to the killing of police officers and search members, the police here wouldn't press charges against those who succeeded in delivering justice. The dead suspects and the case as a whole would get swept under the rug which suited him just fine. They had brought Ned enough trouble coming to him for help, and Stan thought that for his last night in South Park he should sleep in his own bed.

Reversing their positions from when they were driving up the mountain pass, Kyle was now tucked against Stan with his head over his shoulder. It gave him some sense of calm, but the stress of the conflict wouldn't leave and a part of him worried if it ever would. The fatigue settled in and Stan periodically rubbed at his eyes, fog and drifting snow further entrenching his feeling of being isolated; wanting to rouse Kyle to help him stay alert, but leaving him to slumber.

Kyle lurched awake when Stan came to a stop and accepted his hand as they got out of the car and into the house. Neither communicated verbally what to do next; but Stan drew a bath and they shed their clothes to get inside, glued together letting hot water pool around them. They both fell asleep at one point, failing in their struggle to stay conscious, but when Stan blinked awake next and saw the pruned state of his fingers he drained the bath. Kyle curled up reflexively as the warmth of the bathwater swirled down the drain and Stan picked him up to carry to his bedroom. They slid under the covers of his bed and stuck close together as the unconditioned air in the solemn house chilled them. Neither had spoken a word...Secrets they both wanted to forget refused to dislodge from their minds and silenced them into a state of weary reflection.

Kyle threaded his fingers with Stan's, holding the back of his hand to his chest and whispering, "Thank you for coming back. I couldn't have done it without you." Stan accepted those warm sentiments and ignored the cynicism in the dark side of his heart that questioned what he had done for Kyle besides signing him out a mental hospital and committing a string of revenge killings. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Stan admitted before silence reclaimed the room and they surrendered to the pull of sleep.

At 4:57 in the morning, Stan's phone vibrated on the night stand. He was compelled to answer, carefully extracting himself from Kyle to receive the call once he was out of bed. "Hello?" Stan whispered and there was a resentful breathing on the other end, a speaker struggling to find the words. "Hello?" Stan repeated, and now the unidentified caller replied.

"You...And that...Kike. What the fuck did you do? I told you..." Cartman seethed over the line and Stan stepped toward the window, cupping his hand around the phone to keep those toxic words from waking Kyle. "We did what you and Kenny said you would do. It's over now." Stan couldn't understand why Cartman was so furious, biting curses over the phone at him.

"No. It's not over. We're coming for you! Don't try to run," Cartman snarled threateningly, and before he hung up Stan was left with a message he should not understand, spoken in the damned tongue of the cult of Cthulhu. But somehow, after being immersed in their madness, he could understand that parting phrase that drained the color from his entire body when he heard it:

'That is not dead which can eternal lie,  
And with strange aeons even death may die.'


	9. Chapter 9: A Sacrifice

The crashing of glass echoed through the bedroom as a rock sailed through the window. Stan was given pause to take his finger off the trigger of his gun when he saw a slip of paper tied to the rock that had landed over the bed spread. "Stan, they're going to do terrible, unspeakable things to us..." Kyle urged as winter boots stomped through the house. Snatching up the paper Stan read aloud: "If your plan is killing off the cult then you have yet to finish the job. Wait and see. From ?" The paper was signed with a question mark and Stan wadded it up to throw out of sight before his locked bedroom door was rammed open. He clutched Kyle's hand tightly as the cloaked figures shuffled around them and herded them out of the house with cold hands across their bare shoulders. The smell off of the mass was a sort of rot preserved by the cold, and Stan lost the contents of his stomach over the snow because when he looked over his shoulder he could see blonde hair and a familiar face that hung slack and lifeless without expression. He struggled to continue walking as he realized that all of the bodies swarming him were necrotic dolls, corpses of Kenny Mccormick in various shades of disrepair. All of them were the 'wrong' Kenny.

At the head of the pack were three figures who could still walk in believable human animation, with the wide one obviously being Eric Cartman. Walking ahead with their backs to them, Stan couldn't pick out the other two, but one of them had to be a living and breathing Kenny. To his disgust they were being led to his old church that had fallen into gross, vandalized ruin in such a short amount of time since he'd been gone. Naked, with his body screaming for warmth, he huddled beside Kyle as they were ushered inside, with no image of the savior for his hopeful eyes to find. The pulpit had been re-purposed for witchcraft and they were forced to kneel by it. Cartman delivered a kick to Stan's ribs with impunity for the beating he had received earlier, Butters looking on with resignation showing himself to be the living unknown under the cloak. Kenny pulled his cowl down with an arrogant expression on his face, the irises of his eyes a bright red. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man, Stan Marsh and this man, Kyle Broflovski, in matrimony."

Stan scowled at Kenny as he mocked them, "What do you want?" Kenny withdrew a knife from the altar, and held it perilously close to Stan's neck. "What I want is beyond your mortal reckoning. You're the last pawn that Kyle has left to play against me; and he's done quite well using you as such, however there are no moves left for him to make but to surrender to my will." The red-eyed monster before Stan quickly dragged the tip of his knife blade down the left side of Stan's chest, turning from a pale line to a seeping red gash that flowed like a river down his body. "I surrender then, stop it!" Kyle hissed angrily, restrained on his knees. Kenny smiled and backed away from stan, "Splendid! You shall lead us in ceremony. When your family members were on the cutting block, you still fought back...But this plain looking boy, he's the one, isn't he? You'll do as I say this time or he will die." Cartman interjected, "We're bringing back the lost first. Cthulhu can come through the gate after." Kenny turned on Cartman with the blade leveled toward his stomach, bellowing, "I won't wait any longer for the Old One's ascension! Let your lost ones slither in with the rest of His afterbirth." Kenny's demeanor shocked Stan, stirred toward indictment for such trespasses, but Kyle spoke up first. "You can't bring them back, Cartman...You're only bringing hell to Earth." Cartman remained indignant, "So be it. I'll help bring down the barriers between the living and the dead then. We can all live together, forever. We'll be favored acolytes in the Old One's new world of eternal dreamers." Stan coughed feeling a pain in his side, "You've completely lost it. You and Kenny." the red-eyed prince of lies laughed at Stan's ignorance, "I am not the son of Cthulhu you know as Kenny, but the son of Satan you shall hereby know as Damien. All the horrors of hell pale in comparison to the dark oblivion in ancient space, and God's only recourse will be to weep as his creation is corrupted." Damien dragged Stan across the floor with a hand fisted into his hair, yanking at his scalp while he was kept at knifepoint. The blonde husks in robes limped into a circle around Cartman, Kyle, and Butters to begin the ritual. The resonating timbre of their voices speaking in tongues lit the church candelabras and made the stained glass windows rattle.

Stan's vision hazed and his breath grew labored. It felt like all of infinite space was rubber-banding on itself, overlapping planes shrinking toward the size of a dot faster than the speed of light toward cosmic annihilation. What had he accomplished in sparing himself a quick death in his bedroom at Kyle's side? He'd learned the truth of who resided at the top of the cult's hierarchy, but if the ritual was completed he'd only be responsible for bringing it to fruition. Stan couldn't imagine doing anything differently all the same. If he held off the end of the world by staying away from Kyle, allowing him to waste away in a cell crying for his help? He'd rather let the end of the world come. He realized that was no different than Cartman's selfish wish. He didn't own the world, and he didn't own Kyle. He would not allow Kyle, his king, to surrender himself for his sake. In his sacrifice, he could find the strength to rebel.

Stan jumped and twisted in Damien's grasp like a fish on the chopping block under the shine of the blade. Kyle looked up to see a spray of blood and Stan clasping both hands around his neck, falling to the ground. The air within the magic circle erupted outward with arcane energy that shattered the windows. Damien looked in bewilderment from the bloody blade in his hand that the pawn had thrown himself into, up to Kyle who embodied wrath in the glean of his eyes. "No!" Damien shouted abjectly at Kyle's defiance, but he had no means left to threaten him, and had to defend himself as an arc of red lightning flew at him. Cartman made a step to throw himself onto Kyle, but Butters and one of the cloaked figures intercepted by tackling him to the ground. The other necro puppets stayed kneeling dormant, forming the magic circle, hanging limp with their metaphysical strings cut from their master's hold. Damien deflected the arc of mana to the ceiling which split the supporting beam over the structure and initiated it's collapse as the old wood was lit ablaze and compounded the rate of it's destruction.

Kyle ran and threw himself over Stan's body hoping to form a barrier, or at least be flattened together like pressed flowers. He closed his eyes tight and felt over Stan's neck. Blood seeped between his fingers but he was glad to feel his heartbeat, if just a while longer, as beams of wood smashed into the floor and brick spilled out of the crumbling walls. Kenny Mccormick untangled himself from Butters and Cartman, pulling down the cowl of his robe, his blue eyes crying from the bite of smoke in the air. The walking corpse copies of himself went up in flames like the dead wood they were made of; as did Damien, howling as he ran ablaze from the church. Kenny had to pull everyone else out before they succumbed to the smoke, but when he looked back he saw a wide, splintered fragment of the roof gored into Cartman's stomach and Butters clasped against his side unwilling to let go as Kenny pulled at him numbly. Eric stared upward in disbelief as his body rapidly shut down to give his mind a few moments more to observe the world before passing. The last tactile response he chose to feel was running his thick fingers over the soft blonde hair of Butters. He tried to speak but only blood spilled from his mouth. Before he died, he would have liked to tell his friends he'd see them in hell.

Kenny forced Butters up and away even as the male flailed and slapped at him. They made their way stooping under the rising smoke to Stan and Kyle clutching each other in a growing pool of blood. Kenny knew that no matter what he did he would not be able to pull Kyle away from him. He'd learned that much by now. "He's not dead," Kyle insisted, "We can save him." Butters and Kenny stared numbly at him and Kyle corrected with venom, "I'll save him! Just help me get him outside, onto the ice!" the trio gingerly pulled Stan out of the building, keeping pressure around his neck, and settled him into the snow as the body Damien had occupied smoldered in the dark slush coating the street. "What will you do...? We never learned magic to heal," Butters asked and Kenny joined in, "He already has one foot in the grave, don't blaspheme the reaper when all of this happened because you didn't believe in the resurrection." Kyle stroked Stan's hair in one hand as the other held fast over his bleeding wound. "I'll join his soul together with mine. He will gain power over his blood and be able to survive." Kenny and Butters backed away. "Kyle, If you do that and he dies, you'll join him." The thought had not swayed Kyle and his incantations extracted his very life force to bond to Stan. Before their eyes the craven witch was becoming a necromancer, a lich; turning a living mortal into a phylactery that he would join souls with. Imbibed with the capacity for blood magic, Stan should be stabilized; retaining his life essence even as his earthly vessel was pierced with a mortal wound.

Kyle looked so pleased with himself before his eyelids dropped and he fell against the snow from where he sat. The letter he'd wanted to read so badly to Stan was left unread. The fire crew arrived before the police who were late coming down from the mountain. There were many bodies left unidentifiable from the damage of the fire, but Eric Cartman, Stan Marsh, and Kyle Broflovski were pronounced dead. Butters was recommitted to the asylum and Kenny joined him for the sake of the company amidst the ruins of their town. They visited the cemetery every day, where Butters would lay flowers for Eric and cast sidelong glances at the mausoleum where Stan and Kyle rested. At Kenny's request they were sealed in as they were, un-embalmed.

Three days after the night of the second failed ritual, Kenny went to the cemetery on his own and forced open the door of the mausoleum. He knelt and lit a candle, studying the peaceful features of Stan and Kyle. They looked just the same as they did before, as if they were sleeping soundly. "Isn't it about time you two woke up already...? Craig is going to find out I'm gone if I wait much longer." Kenny laughed sardonically, letting the hours pass by keeping company with their bodies.

Alarmed by his extended absence; Craig, Tweek, and Butters came upon him at nightfall sitting by a candle, alone in the mausoleum. "Kenny, when I told you to stop interfering with the graves, that included the tombs," Craig glared down at him. "Just wishing them a good journey," Kenny picked up the candle and rose from where he was sitting, looking over the empty slabs before him.

"Wishing who a good journey?" Tweek stammered frightfully, looking all over. "All of them. It's a hard journey, and I should know," Kenny snuffed the candle and made Tweek yelp in fright. "Enough ghost stories you bastard, come back to your room now or I'm putting you in a straitjacket." Tweek pulled at Craig's arm, telling him there were foot prints besides theirs on the grounds but he went unheeded as the mad often do.

By the morning light, the car that had been parked out in front of the old Marsh residence was gone. A letter arriving in Denver would inform Wendy that she now held the lease to Stan's old apartment and office. She tried calling his phone over and over again and got no reply. The tired blue sedan sailed along the freeway, driving far away from the cold mountains, containing two living yet un-living beings: the red-headed lich who was busily reading aloud the lovesick letters he'd once penned in life, and the raven-haired phylactery who held a piece of his soul inside of him.


End file.
